


i am all the days that you choose to ignore

by hubrisandwax



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Basically, Future Fic, In Universe, M/M, Porn with Feelings, it has a happy ending though i promise!!, post 5x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey come together one last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am all the days that you choose to ignore

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so, i have like, a gazillion things i should be working on, but i couldn't help but immerse myself in sad feelings and write this. it's very angsty, but it has resolution at the end, i promise. 
> 
> thank you so much, as always, to [Jen](http://wehangout.tumblr.com) for suffering through this with me and letting me break her.
> 
> the mini playlist i had for this was:
> 
> 1\. [All I Need [live from The Basement]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9IODJdi3GA) \- Radiohead  
> 2\. [The End Of All Things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSWIfX_MNCY) \- Panic! At The Disco  
> 3\. [The Hill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=meGas6BNArs) \- Market Iglova and Glen Hansard  
> 4\. [I Can't Make You Love Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MJio3s2wFI) \- Bon Iver  
> 5\. [Someone New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_rXfpUVgSk) \- Banks  
> 6\. [Without You I'm Nothing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLmypIo-wFY) \- Placebo
> 
> as such, title taken from All I Need by Radiohead.

 

> “I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is.”
> 
> _Charles Bukowski_

 

You know this is the last time.

This is it. This is what three fucking years have built to; this next hour spent with his body against yours, denying anything ever changed between you. It begins with a gaze, heavy with implication, as you stand on his goddamn front porch, shifting your weight, his green stare focussed intensely on you. You’re an unanswered question. You want to look away but you don’t; with him, you never look away. Your eyes will always follow him like a dehydrated man seeking that watery mirage; your body like a sinner seeking repentance through regret.

No words are exchanged - they’re unneeded. He fucking knows, like he always knows, but still he hesitates, not quite sure. His expression is drawn. Your breath clouds on the air and you wait, heart thumping, lungs aching. It hurts to fucking look at him; it hurts to fucking not. When he first opened that door it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of iced water over your head. Now, though – now you just feel sick with wanting. You thought you were numb to it, this agony that surpassed anything you know, because time has flickered and blurred and become amelioration to the anathema that was that day. However, with him standing right in front of you, it’s that much worse.

You need to be angry. Anger is an almost palpable emotion; it’s there; you can seize it; use it. Instead you feel like you’re drowning. Like you’re suffocating under too much, too little; too fucking everything.

You want to hate him half as much as you hate yourself.

Fingers gripping at the lighter in your jacket pocket, willing your hands to stop fucking shaking, you roll your bottom lip into your mouth and try to swallow against the lump in your throat. Ian looks away, at his feet, glancing back inside the house before he pulls the door open a little further and disappears. It’s your invitation. You exhale a breath you didn’t realise you were holding and take in another deep lungful of air as you step forward.

Up through the doorframe. Across the hallway, into the living room that hasn’t fucking changed, that still smells a little like food, a little like smoke, a lot like the Gallaghers. Ian’s ahead of you, running his hand through his hair as he checks you’re following him, dressed in old sweatpants and a green tank you recognise. Skin; too much skin. His coloring is sallow and his eyes are red but he’s there. He’s fucking there, right in front of you, and holy fuck you want to touch. You’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

He’s up the stairs and so are you, pulling off your coat, your gloves, almost tripping into his room. There’s unspoken acceptance between you, an understanding that this is important. That this is it.

This is goodbye.

Your fantasies have been filled with him for however long now, and every time you close your eyes you think you see a flash of red at the corner of your vision, but it’s nothing compared to having him in front of you. He’s standing by the window, the dull light igniting his hair, casting his body into sharp relief, highlighting every single fucking freckle scattered across his too white skin. You look away, unwinding your scarf from your neck, shucking off your jacket, leaving your brown sweater because you’ll have to pull that over your head, and then he’s there, right in front of you, barrelling you against the door, invading your space. He’s close enough to touch with your tongue.

You’re not sure if he’s about to put you back together or pull you apart.

You gasp as he cages you in with his limbs, smelling like cigarettes and deodorant and everything you’ve ever loved, and fucking hell, you love him. It’s undeniable. You can’t stop, won’t stop, will never stop. He’s leaning in, studying you closely. You could count his fucking freckles. The world stutters to a halt; you’re frozen in this moment in time, snagged in his green gaze like a fish in a net. Then he’s moving, his bright crimson mouth pressing against yours, and God how you’ve missed this. Everything whites out for a moment, your skin prickling, and when you resurface he’s still there, running his tongue along the seam of your lips, pushing into your mouth, licking at your teeth and fucking your tongue with his own.

You think you whimper. You’re not sure. Your hands drop to the hem of his tank but you can barely think from all the wanting, so you push your hand inside his pants and grasp at his hardening cock. He moans, kissing you harder, biting at your mouth so desperately. You let him.

Soon his lips are leaving yours and his teeth are against your throat. He’s sucking indigo flowers into your skin, bruises like damaged hearts, and the fingers not wrapped around his cock dance across his hip before you grip hard against the bone. His hand joins yours around his length, your fingers intertwined as he jerks himself roughly. He gasps into your mouth; swallows audibly, whispers something into your collarbone that you can’t understand. This is your cue to pull away, you think, because this will end much too quick, too soon, and you can’t. You just – can’t.

Ian gets it, though. He steps backwards as he begins to tug the tank over his head. You have to look away, your brain reminding you that this is the last time you’ll watch him undress. The last time you’ll have his lips against your skin; his words whispered softly into your ear, his face in front of you as he comes.

As quick as possible, you begin to remove your own clothing - until you’re standing, completely bare, near the foot of the bed. It’s the first time that you’ve ever felt naked, exposed, utterly vulnerable in Ian’s company. You shift, trying to cover yourself as you pull off your socks. Ian’s gaze twitches towards anything but you. He’s hesitating, too, like he’s not sure this is a good idea anymore, and you swallow against your own uncertainty as you rub a hand against your face.

The distance stretches between you as the urgency, the lust, fades, and you’re left with nothing but too much bare skin, too many bare emotions, too many raw memories, too few minutes. More is communicated in the silence between you than words could ever say. You know what he’s contemplating before he even moves. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it.

Looking away towards the duvet, towards the window, towards any safe space (who are you kidding; this is Ian’s room, nothing’s safe) you say, “Don’t,” the syllable cracked and broken. It’s an echo of another time, a different goodbye, but the sentiment’s the same. Don’t leave. Don’t doubt yourself. Don’t let go.

Don’t stop loving me.

“Okay,” is all he says in response, softly, but he regards you carefully for a moment before reaching over to the drawer beside his bed, pulling out the lube and a condom and resting them on the bed.

Once he has them, he draws his body in on itself like he began to after he was diagnosed, shoulders hunched and limbs askew, as if he's uncomfortable, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do next, and you force yourself to lie on the bed like a patient waiting for the surgeon’s knife. You refuse to cover yourself as you prop your body against the headboard. Ian makes an aborted motion to move towards you, arm outstretched. He opens his mouth again before immediately closing it, resolute, and picks up the condom. The fucking condom, which says it all. You haven’t used a rubber with him in forever, not since the first time he came back after he went AWOL, and it feels like a piece of incriminating evidence at a murder scene. Who’s the victim here – you? Ian? Your relationship?

You’ve got it fucking wrong, you think. You’re the crime, the murderer, the murdered. This room is the scene. Ian is the weapon, the motive, the blood on your hands you can never wash off.

Glaring at the offending item, you say, “I’m clean."

"So am I." He discards the condom and picks up the lube. Squirts some onto his fingers. You look away again as he crouches between your legs, closing your eyes against the dampness, the fucking alibi to your pain. Ian leans forward, pressing his mouth to your stomach as he touches your hole, and you try not to flinch against his fingers, the cold intrusion.

"You good?" he says, hesitating, and you want to say, _No, I haven't been fucking 'good' since the night the army arrested you_ , but you nod and clench your teeth because Ian doesn't mean that. You fucking want this, even if you shouldn't, even if this is your poison laced apple, your swansong, this goddamn boy with golden constellations across his skin and the reddest hair you've ever seen.

After two fingers you almost tell him to stop. You think a certain degree of pain might be some kind of release. You let him continue to stretch you, though, because it draws your time together out, the minutes expanding long and full and silent, your moans the only soundtrack to your submission.

Your breath flutters with your pulse, rabbit quick, as he stops mouthing at your cock and looks up at you. His pupils are blown, hair dishevelled, lips sucked cherry red and plump. They’re like an open wound; you see his face, blurred, through your eyelashes and hooded lids. You close your eyes completely.

“Hey, look at me,” he says, almost desperately, and you clench your fingers against the duvet. Looking at him makes this too real, too final, like you’re stealing minutes - fucking taking them with no regard, as goddamn greedy for them as you really are.

You’re worried about what you won’t see more than what you will see. You’re scared you’ll see nothing. A gaze and face as blank as it was the day he broke up with you, except for the tears; the fucking tears you weren’t sure were for him or for you.

You want to keep the fantasy, the memory, of his love alive.

It’s a love you wanted but never deserved. Ian loved you - unconditionally, it seemed - no matter how hard you pushed or pulled at him. His affection for you was a constant. He was warmth and goodness in the cold wastes of your existence; you were nothing more than a piece of white Southside trash with no future, no hope, each cigarette you lit shaving already wasted minutes off your life. Ian made you want to be better, whatever that fucking means; made you feel some kind of whole, but now ...

You’ve had a long time to think, these last few weeks. Too long.

“Mick.”

Your name spoken in his voice feels like a punch in the fucking gut. Your eyelids twitch open fully, and he’s there, too close, freckles and muddied grass, his breath hot and damp against your face. Lower lip trembling, your eyes trace the lines of his face. His own expression shifts as soon as he realises you’ve opened your eyes, a mask slipping into place, but you think the broken, unsure way he said your name implies a lot.

Maybe it’s worse if he does still love you. Maybe this _is_ wrong. Maybe this is hurting him as much as you; what was supposed to be a final, brutal fuck is turning into something it shouldn’t.

So you make a decision.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you say, trying to control your voice, but it sounds wet and weak even to your own ears. You avert your gaze, refusing to look at him, refusing to say his name, attempting to hide your vulnerability, your neediness behind perfunctory fucking machinations as you slam your own defenses up. Everything so far has been too much, and you’re no longer feeling as in control as you (almost) were in the cold on his doorstep.

You summon the memory of that day, always that day; focus on the way it colors your every moment. You felt like you were dying. You felt like you were dying, but you weren’t - there was air in your lungs, blood in your veins, the dull, repetitious swirl of thoughts in your head, and a hole in your chest where your heart should have been. You want to believe that Ian doesn’t deserve your own affection - that he has no right to feel _damaged_ himself when he so callously broke up with you for fucking _trying_ , throwing your love back in your face. Of course you can’t, though - you love Ian too much, will always want to give him your everything. Right now, though, _everything_ aches too much, every breath like a gunshot wound. This way, you can get what you need out of your 'exchange.'

Keeping your gaze fixed anywhere but his face, you begin to fuck yourself back on Ian’s fingers. Both of you need to be reminded of what this is. What you both came here for in the first place. What you are to Ian. How this has to be.

Ian’s movements are jerky for a moment, like he’s surprised, but he picks up the pace, pressing a third finger in. You’re hard and leaking across your stomach, cock throbbing, heart palpitating. It suddenly feels like some sort of battle. Some kind of second death.

Though whether you’re fighting yourself or Ian, you couldn’t say.

Ian’s squirting more lube on his hand as you open your eyes again, probably preparing for a fourth finger. You want the drag, though, a little bit of pain to ground you, so schooling your expression, preventing any fucking emotion from leaking across your face, you run your tongue across your mouth and grunt, “Ready.”

“Are you -”

“Shut the fuck up and get in me.”

Ian tries to lean up, probably to kiss you, you think, so you twist your head away and flip your body so not only won’t you be able to see him, but his mouth won’t be anywhere near yours. If he kisses you while you’re fucking, you don’t know if you could handle it. You think it might break you. He sighs a little. You hear the cap of the lube snapping open against as he slicks up his cock, and then the blunt head is pushing against your entrance. Rather than letting him inch in slow as fuck like you know he will, you push your weight immediately back, impaling yourself on all nine inches of him. You both gasp simultaneously. You know he’s going to wait, to let you adjust, but you don’t want that, so you twitch your hips to encourage him.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, voice heavy and husky with arousal despite the defiant edge, and you know exactly what he fucking looks like right now without even having to turn your head. It’s awful. You don’t say anything. Of course it has to be like this. You press back again, wishing maybe you’d gone reverse cowgirl so you had control but still didn’t have to look at his fucking face.

Grasping at your hips, he pistons forward, then back. It’s not enough, though. You want more. You try to move in time with his thrusts, to work yourself harder on his cock, but his rhythm stutters and it makes you want to scream.

Finally, after a few minutes, he gets the goddamn hint that this isn’t some fucking sentimental lovemaking session. His fingers bite into your hipbones as he pushes forward, faster, faster, fucking into you hard, and it’s sweet, sweet bliss. The physical sensation - the drag of his cock against your rim, the pleasure-pain of his hands bruising your hips, your waist, the flesh of your back - is what you needed to ground you. Some kind of penance. Something to remind you of what you and Ian are now - or what you’re not.

The million-dollar question is whether you’re trying to punish Ian - or if you're trying to punish yourself.

Even at the beginning, when sex between you was about little more than getting off, it wasn’t like this. You were connected in more ways than one, even if you wouldn’t admit it. It was about acceptance. About someone caring for you. About someone seeing you for more than you were, even if it was a lie and you couldn’t believe it yourself. You need the fucking distinction, though - the then and now. Emotive to emotionless. You need to remind yourself of what you are to Ian, what your relationship is now. It’s no longer fucking summer sunshine on your face or ice cream and Jello or evenings spent laughing in baseball dugouts. It’s danger; a bullet wound; crushed glass between teeth.

It’s too much - it’s all too much - but fuck you need it, and -

Something wet splashes against your back. What the fuck?

Twisting your neck, you turn to look back up at Ian, and - fuck. He’s crying. Silent tears run down his face, dripping off the length of his nose, off his chin, his face blotchy and red. His hips stutter and falter as soon as he realizes you’re looking at him, and he lifts one of his hands to rub across his face, his nose.

“Mick, I …” He pulls out of you. “This is …”

Your own pain hits you like a fucking tidal wave, everything you’ve been blocking slamming into you hard and fast with every tear that works its way down Ian’s face. You try to take a breath, but it sounds more like a dry sob, and fuck, you can’t have a panic attack, not again - not here, not now.

You rise up on your knees and grasp Ian’s hand, pulling him gently beneath you until he’s half curled against the headboard, pillow propping his hips up. He stares at you with wide-eyes, looking younger than you’ve ever seen him. Wounded, like this is hurting him as much as it’s hurting you, eyes red-rimmed, mouth bitten and lips chapped. You pull your lip between your teeth and take a deep breathe before gesturing at his cock. He nods once. You let him kiss you, close-mouthed, because it’s all you can manage, and you push yourself back onto his length.

Now he can see every bare emotion playing across your face, you can see the same across his, and it’s so much worse. It takes you a few moments to realise you don’t even think you’re hard anymore, your soft cock flapping between your legs, fucking useless, and Ian tries to stop you again. You don’t let him.

“I’m good if you’re good,” you say, your voice shaking.

“I am,” Ian says quietly. You rock forward again. The angle’s fucking perfect, but you can’t deny the romanticism anymore. He’s so, so close, his hair tickling your forehead every time you rise up, your breaths coming at the same rate as you breathe in each other’s air. It takes you a moment, but you realize that your eyes are damp, too, but neither of you are going to address what this means. You thought you were beyond tears - beyond everything. This is fucking overwhelming.

You grow hard as you regain some kind of pretend composure, some kind of control, and Ian buries his face against your shoulder. You want nothing more than to kiss the salt from his skin, to comfort him, but that isn’t what this is about. Not at all. Even if your rhythm has become painfully slow, the room almost deathly quiet, save for both your sniffles and the sound of skin against skin, this is not about love.

Oh, but how it fucking is.

Ian’s hands grasp at your waist, like he’s clinging to you, like if he lets go you’ll disappear, and he tries to pull you further into his body. You let him. He mouths at your skin; you gasp as his cock grazes your prostate. You’re worried you’re going to fall apart.

Soon - too soon, not soon enough - you’re there, teetering on the precipice. You know Ian’s close, too - know his tells better than your own, and fuck, that hurts. Familiarity is a bitch - salt in a smarting wound. This entire hour has been some kind of agonising lesson in intimacy. No matter how much you try to forget about someone, try to unlearn every small, private thing you know about them, the memories, the sensations, will always come back and hit you like a juggernaut.

A flush works its way down his face, across the skin of his chest, his mouth hanging open, breaths coming short and quick as his eyelids flutter. You think it might kill you, but you want to watch anyway, to carve out a fucking space for this in your memory.

He shudders, gasping _Mick_ , and if all your walls haven't been knocked down already, they’re rubble, now. His name from your lips sounds like some sort of prayer.

A sob escapes your mouth, the air rushing from your lungs as if you’re winded. You come untouched, vision whiting at the edges, your legs tingling. Each of your nerve-endings feels as if they’re burning.

Ian’s body is cradled against your chest as you come-to. He’s pulling out of you gently, shifting your body into the circle of his arms, kissing your hairline, your jaw, your face, feather light and without intent as you sprawl across his chest. You let him, breathing his scent into your lungs - his skin, his sweat, the sex. You don’t let yourself cry, though the tears are there. The lump in your throat and your gut is heavy. You feel sick, but you try to swallow it away. This is it. You know as soon as you move your bubble will pop. It’ll be like being splashed with cold water. Nothing will be as good as it is now. Not ever again.

This is the last time.

You couldn’t have left the memory of your last fuck as a quickie at the baseball dugouts, the taste of blood thick on your tongues, an apology offered by Ian at the end lingering heavy in the air. This way it’s better. This way you’re reminded of what you had and why you can’t have it now.

The come between you is drying, your skin growing itchy and cold. Ian’s stopped moving now, and you can’t help but card your hand through his hair, the long strands running between your fingers. You tug his mouth to yours, open-mouthed, this time - it’s too fucking late for any pretense - as your fingers grasp at the back of his neck. You think your eyes are leaking, you’re not sure, but so are Ian’s. It’s okay. It’s okay.

The kiss is salty and sweet and you pull away before it consumes you. Ian’s eyes are open, which is unusual - he almost always kisses with his eyes closed. His eyelashes are clotted with tears, tiny stars of water collecting against the orange lengths.

He swallows. Opens his mouth. Presses his forehead to yours, closes his eyes, his features pinching together. “I love you,” he says softly, before his face slackens, like he’s just realised what he said.

The words feel like knives pressed against your throat.

Something inside you snaps. No, no, no, you are _not_ doing this. You pull in a breath and feel like you’re fucking drowning, like you’re fighting for air - not for the first time today. You say out loud, “No.”

You’re up and off the bed in a heartbeat, picking your clothes up off the floor, pointedly trying to keep your eyes off Ian. The words may have been whispered like a cure but it feels more like they were spat like a curse.

You fucking need a smoke so bad.

“I know I should’ve said it that day,” Ian continues, and his voice is slow, dejected; scared. “You deserved it. You didn’t deserve me. What I said. I’m not -”

“No,” you say, harder this time, because you don’t trust yourself to say anything else. You’re trying to pull your shirt with the elephant on it over your head, but your arms are shaking, you’re getting tangled, and _why won’t your fucking limbs go through the fucking sleeves, Goddamn it_. You needed to be out of here a fucking hour ago. All this was a mistake. Your mind screams _wrong_. You’re choking on the emotion in each of your breaths.

“I can’t do this, Mickey,” he says. His voice is barely a whisper; he sounds more broken than you’ve ever heard him. “I’m back on the meds - you should know that. My family, though …” His laugh is wet, humorless. “They …” You only look over at him because the way his voice sounds scares you. He’s pulled his body in on itself again, like he just wants to fucking disappear, to be invisible, his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes, sheet draped over his lap. He’s exposed in his nakedness. You think it might be the worst thing you’ve ever seen - except for his face the last time you saw him.

You don’t know what the fuck to do.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “So fucking sorry. For everything.” Grasping at the back of his neck, he says, “They got us the wrong way round, in the end.”

You want to ask him what he means, but the words stick on your throat, your tongue, like swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon. Your fingers grip at the door handle. You know that if you leave now, this is fucking it. There’s no coming back.

Goodbye, _leaving_ , has never felt more like a fucking bullet. An execution.

“Thank you, Mickey."

You pull the door open but you hesitate. You still feel like you want to get out of your skin; like there’s not enough space anywhere, like you’re trapped. Overwhelmed. You rub your hand across your mouth. Your jaw. Your neck. You pinch your tongue between your teeth and count to three. Take a deep breath.

You’ll never have anyone, _anything_ , better than Ian, and you know it. He belongs in full-time employment, in college, with too many lovers and too many friends; you belong in prison. Alone, like you mostly always have been. You’re starting to hope this was all a fucking dream. A nightmare. A fantasy gone wrong. You don’t even think your subconscious could be this cruel, though, and you’re wondering how much plays across your face. Your indecision. You know Ian wants to say more. You know him. Do you stay to hear it? Do you leave and play it to chance?

None of this was in the script; none of this was expected.

You step away from the door, say, low and quiet and deadly, “What do you fucking want, Ian?” and stare at the scuffmarks on the carpet as the fingers on your right hand twitch. _F-U-C-K._

You can’t look at him. You’re back at the beginning where it hurts to look at him and it hurts to not and your skin prickles, your stomach turning, heart racing, breath coming shallow and fast. How much does Ian _need_ you. How much does he _want_ you - if at all. There’s a difference, and it’s important.

And how much, that little voice at the back of your head supplies, has your relationship been about Ian wanting what he can’t, fucking figuratively, have.

You can’t let yourself doubt Ian, though. He’s the only constant - except, once upon a time, for your mother, and Mandy - that you’ve ever really had.

Ian’s quiet, like he’s surprised by your response, and perhaps now turning his answer over in his head. You try to even out your breathing to something less erratic. Let your eyelids flutter shut. Force your mind to go blank.

“You have …” He pauses. The air leaves his lungs in one big rush, and you hear him draw breath. “Every right to leave, okay? So …” He’s quiet again, like he’s waiting, and you shift your weight to indicate that he can keep going. You’re staying put for the moment. If this is one of the rare insights Ian’s offering into his mind - well, you’ll take anything, at the moment. Any fucking crumb.

He starts again. “I told you, that day -” Your next breath is sharp, too sharp; you swallow and choke on air. “- That you don’t owe me anything. I stand by that. But the reverse isn’t true. I owe you. I owe you a lot.” His next breath is staccato. Shuddery. You still refuse to look at him. “Especially an explanation.”

All the fight leaves you, then, and you sag, a bit like the ragdoll your mom bought Mandy when you were kids. The one that used to sit against the pillows at the head of Mandy’s bed, the one she used to carry when she’d crawl into bed with you at 3am when your dad came home drunk. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” More silence, save for the rustle of bedsheets, a dog’s bark, a car alarm sounding somewhere in the distance. The come is starting to flake on the muscles across your stomach - you can feel it. You know that if you leave now, you’ll be forever haunted by the image of Ian sprawled against his bed, reminding you of a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. _Don’t touch it, Mickey. Leave it. It’s already as good as dead._

If you leave now, an empty chasm will open inside you as you stand under the spray of your shower and clean the final signs, the final fucking vestiges, of your relationship with Ian from your skin. You’ll wash your ass and your stomach and feel sick with loss. You’ll keep the clothes you wore today stashed under your pillow, because they’ll smell like Ian’s room, like Ian, and you won’t wash them until the redolence fades completely.

Sometimes you still stick your face into his pillow and _breathe_. You’re not sure how much is still Ian’s scent, and how much is just your imagination.

You’re not sure if you have the strength to go through that again. Wondering if the pain would ever stop, whether there would ever be relief (people told you there would be, that time heals all, and all you wanted was for time to fast-forward until it fucking abated and each memory felt less like a laceration). The emptiness. The nothingness after feeling so much - fresh now you’ve touched him, seen his face. The division of before and after like an epoch: _last time I did this we were still together_. When you fucked at the dugouts you didn’t realise it was the last time. You’re not sure whether that makes the memory better or worse. How ignorant Mickey Milkovich was then; how much you fucking wish could go back to that time before everything became tarnished by sour feelings and acrid memories.

It’s like when your mother died but different, because back then, you didn’t understand loss. Now it’s become your ever-present, bitter companion.

The only time you ever felt anything but overwhelming despair was that moment between waking and sleep where memory hadn’t caught up with conscious reality, and for a few glorious seconds, the world was light and blissful ignorance. Until actuality hit, of course, which it inevitably fucking did, and everything became too real, too fucking raw again. You said to Ian, once: _What you and I have makes me free_. Now what you have makes you feel like a caged animal waiting to be shot.

You’re standing here in Ian’s bedroom now, though, while he tries to collect his thoughts. You know that’s what he’s doing - you know him too well. Painfully well. You grasp at it because you want to delay for as long as possible. You’re the martyr. The fool who’s victim to his own game.

“I didn’t want to trap you in a sexless relationship with someone who didn’t deserve you. Doesn’t deserve you. A relationship where we both worry about when I’m going to break next. When I’m next going to hurt you.” Ian chuckles darkly. “I thought breaking up with you would make us both suffer less, in the long run. That much of what I said was true.”

Your knuckles flex. “And you didn’t think it would be fucking right to let me make that decision, huh?”

A beat. “It’s like when I left for the army. Self-preservation - for both of us this time, you know?” He sounds defeated. “I’m selfish, Mick.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” _Boundaries_ runs like a litany through your mind. “I’m not that to you anymore.”

Ian makes a sound a bit like he’s been punched. Love isn’t a cure or a weapon - you have to remind yourself, and Ian, of that. You know his expression right now will be like the one he had when you told him he was nothing but a warm mouth to you. This is how it has to be.

Your lungs feel like they’re trapped in a vice. You hate hurting him more than you hate your own pain. If anyone had told you love was like this, you wouldn’t have fucking signed up. (Whom are you fucking kidding; you’d go through anything for Ian).

“Mickey, I ...” Ian’s fighting tears again - you can hear it in his voice. It’s probably the meds. Both of you are too stubborn, too private, too unsure to really say what needs to be said, and Goddamnit, that chasm is growing with every fucking heartbeat.

This is not your place, though - this is Ian's. You don't want to relinquish control but the pieces are in his hands and this is fucking _cross-check_.

“You didn’t even fucking fight.” The words are thin and quavering. “Why the fuck didn’t you fight?”

Still staring at the point by the door where the floor meets the wall, you shrug, saying, “Because you were done. I know when you’re fucking done. It would’ve been like flogging a dead goddamn fucking horse.” You take a breath. Rub at your mouth with your fingertips. “You say I don’t, but I know you, Ian. I fucking know you, no matter what shit you say to push me away.” When he doesn’t respond immediately, you press your face into your hand and say, “We done here?”

“But that’s fucking it, Mickey - I pushed you away. I was a fucking asshole to you. I cheated on you. All because I didn’t know how to deal with _us_ ; _this_ ; the fucking _bipolar_ , and you - you just -”

A thump; to your own surprise, you’ve just punched the wall. The skin on your knuckles is torn, blood beginning to bead at the surface, but you ignore it and say, “Don’t you fucking dare throw that back on me.”

“I’m not.” You hear him sniff. Swallow. The problem is that you both know how to push each other’s fucking buttons. “I called you those names that day - the day at the dugouts - because I was making you into a monster. Something I wanted you to be, a person at my level, a boyfriend I thought I deserved: a piece of Southside trash. Not -” You hear him shift on the bed. At least he’s not crying any more. “You.”

Goddamnit this is getting harder and harder. You glance at the bloodied stinging F-U-C-K on your knuckles and lick your lips. Frustration - and guilt, always guilt - leaks through your mind.

“I thought I could do this, Mickey. I honestly thought I could break up with you and we’d both be okay.” He sniffs again, probably wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “After all this - I’m not so sure.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say, huh?” You’re properly angry now. You fix your eyes to the end of the bed; the only parts of Ian you can see are the bare toes of one of his feet. “You’re telling me this shit and I don’t know what the fuck you want me to do with it.”

“Mickey, this isn’t a justification. I don’t expect … I don’t -”

“Fuck, Ian, for all your talk about knowing each other, you made a lot of fuckin’ assumptions.” You pinch the bridge of your nose with your left hand - you want to tell him to stop toying with you, to stop playing with your fucking emotions, but the words just won’t come. Another thing you told him: _Not everybody gets to blurt out how they fuckin feel every minute_. Ian’s begun to take that liberty less and less with you, as you’ve grown both together and apart, as if maybe he took the words too seriously. It became a problem. You no longer spoke; that’s why you’re where you are now.

It’s shifted too far the other way, now, though. _This_ right here is why emotions are volatile if they go unchecked. Blurting out how you fucking feel only ends in some kind of damage and too much scar tissue - figuratively and goddamn literally. You’ve learned your lesson too many times.

Ian’s quiet again. You huff, and in your frustration, accidentally look at him. He’s still pressed against the pillows at the head of the bed with the duvet wrapped around himself, hunched over, one leg extended out underneath like some kind of odd cat. You’re winded again just like you are every time you look at him, your insides feeling like they would if you’d just fallen from a great height; that sick-dread-stomach flop that lasts for only a moment as you become light headed and your scalp prickles and the world is too much for just a beat in time. This is what looking at Ian feels like.

He’s staring back at you, mouth still the hue of fucking fresh strawberries, or maybe a bullet wound, and you have the odd, hysterical urge to laugh. His face is flushed and clashes with his hair and God, how you love him, with his messy bed hair and his tear-streaked face and his runny nose, an image you want burned into your memory to keep as yours forever.

“I know,” he says softly. “And I wanted to be right. I get if you don’t want it, but.” He swallows hard, audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing underneath his pallid skin. “I can’t push you away any more, Mickey.”

Every moment spent with Ian so far has felt like you’ve done something terrible, like you’ve robbed a convenience store and now you’re running from the scene with incriminating evidence in hand. These words just sound like the cop’s feet against the ground as they finally chase after you; inevitability. He loves you but Ian doesn’t need you; doesn't want you. Okay. Your eyes mist. “That it, then? If you never want to see me again, you just gotta say the word. I’m out.”

“No, Mickey, I -” Ian cuts himself off and makes a sad, frustrated sound in the back of his throat as he shakes his head. He shifts until his feet are on the floor, sheet around his middle, long and white with a fucking red top like a match waiting to be lit. “You asked me, before, what I want. I want us to start over.”

“What?” You swear you must’ve misheard; you fight away the hope that bubbles up. What the actual fuck?

“I want … us. You. Together.”

You flinch. Fucking _checkmate_. Ian’s obviously serious - he looks more determined than you’ve ever seen him, and wow, today is full of goddamn firsts. You cradle your right hand - which is only just now beginning to ache - in your left and stare at him with wide eyes. The world fades out for a moment, like it’s just you and Ian, only you and Ian, and no background noise, no static, just the two of you suspended in time. God you fucking want this more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life, except, perhaps, for your mother to be alive, but it’s different. It’s always different. This story can have a different ending.

Despite Ian’s expression - despite fucking everything - the first words out of your mouth are, “Is this some kinda fucking joke?” but they’re impulsive, because you know the answer is no. Ian would never be that cruel. You know him. You understand him, even without words, and that’s - that’s more than you ever fucking expected.

You know Ian, you understand him, but sometimes he blindsides out out of nowhere. Like the nonsensical shit he said when he broke up with you, like what he’s saying right here, right now. You think you get the situation and have a handle on him but then, bam, right hook to the jaw when you thought your were concentrating.

Ian’s shaking his head and looks ready to stand. You wonder what he’d do - try to pull you towards him? Try to kiss you? You’re tense; you’re ready to flee at any moment. He knows you, though - he knows not to touch you when you’re panicked.

“I know I’ve said and done a lot of really fucking shitty things, Mickey, but I wouldn’t. Never.” He runs his hand through his hair as he gives you the big green puppy dog eyes and fuck.

“I know,” you say. “I just …” You tug at your hair.

“I can give you time, if you want?” Ian says hopefully, and God, hope’s the fucking kicker. He looks so earnest. It’s breaking your heart. He looks away and starts picking at the edge of the sheet, pulling at a loose thread. “I mean, this is something I’ve been thinking about for a while.” This time, when he looks back up at you, the edge of his mouth is quirked into an almost-smile. “I waited two years for you, Mickey - I can wait again.”

That, though - you’re back to the past. Familiarity. You’ll never be able to erase your histories, no matter how transient and mottled memory becomes. It’s what draws you together and pulls you apart. And you know you’ll always come back to this: Ian and this moment. You’re some kind of yo-yo; a damned man whose salvation is the person who pulls the string.

That person is Ian.

Your decision fractures and splinters into parts, into two, like that penultimate point in the movie where the protagonist has to choose right over wrong, hard over easy, the world over himself. It’s not always clear which is best, which is correct. You know both fucking endings: leave, say no, move on with your life like a veteran with a missing limb and just hope the skin heals to mottled scar tissue, your body and mind a poorly stitched patchwork of what you could and couldn’t have; stay, sacrifice your dignity, volunteer your heart, which now lies between you both, ready for Ian’s scalpel and still beating, and hope he’s kinder, next time. That he leaves more of you intact.

Your breath hitches. You swallow. Your stomach still feels like you fucking ate too much pizza too quickly, but you’ve known the answer all along. You’ll always choose Ian, no matter the consequences. _I’m sorry I’m late_. He’s the Jack to your Ennis; the Thelma to your Louise; your fucking _raison d’être_ or whateverthefuck French shit Mandy used to talk about.

You’re stepping forward and his mouth is twitching as he tries to fight a smile.

You take your place beside him on the bed, lowering yourself down slowly, and you say, “We still got shit to sort out.”

“I know.”

“And boundaries to set. Jesus.”

“Absolutely.”

You scratch at your eyebrow with your thumb. “But, yeah,” you say softly. “Okay.”

You suddenly have a six-foot ginger trying to crawl onto you, into you, and you’re kissing, kissing, fucking consumed by him and not for the last time; you don’t want to think any more. This isn’t it. This is what three years have built to; everything changes but still stays the same. _Ian and Mickey._

You’re okay.

**Author's Note:**

> i exist on tumblr [here](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com) (つ｡◕‿◕｡)つ


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